Monday, June 6, 2016

Our
oldest child is leaving his elementary years behind him very soon. And it got me to thinking, tangibly, about
commencement, beginnings and fresh starts.
Because it’s all-amorphous until it’s upon you. This is the child who grew me up. And with each passing year, his arms get
longer, he gets taller and I…have become wistful.

Because
it’s what I do, I decided to write to him.
And when he read it, he asked me to share it with you. I was a little startled to do it, and Joe
clarified, “not all of it Mommy, just some parts. It might help someone else you know.” Well, Joe, it’s an amazing thing, wondrous and powerful—who you
are. You’re absolutely the best
possible thing –only God could have dreamt you up.

So here,
excerpted from my love letter to my oldest child (and embellished as
appropriate for this audience), are some ideas/thoughts/advice that he wanted to
share with you. Congratulations on your
Summer—we hope it is all kinds of amazing.

_______________________

“Joe, you
know what is weird (other than you are now leaving elementary school)? They have coloring books for grown-ups
now! Sophisticated and large, they have
loops and swirls and intricate patterns.

The theory is that you can relax and allow your brain to stop if you
concentrate on just putting color to black and white.

I have
so many of your old coloring books. In
the beginning you colored just because you could. You could grip a crayon and you could make Snoopy look how you
wanted him to look. A flower didn’t
have to be pink when it could be orange.
And it never, ever adhered to the dark black edges that defined it. Color creeped out right and left and above
and below. I love those pictures the
best. In school you were told to color
inside the lines. To be careful not to
get it too close to the edge. You came
home once so sad because your art teacher didn’t like your work.

You
don’t remember, but I do, because it reminded me of a day in the library at
Franconia Elementary when Touré Hutchinson and Rob Beauregard were seated at my
table. I’d had a crush on Rob
forever. But he didn’t return it. I started sketching a girl in a meadow. To me she was so clear. But they both criticized it and made fun of
it. (Touré was really, really good at
art.) ‘How can you do that?’‘It
doesn’t even look like anything!’ The
snickers started and I just kept looking down.
Touré whipped out a very clear girl in a meadow holding flowers. ‘See,’ said Rob, ‘that’s how it should
look.’

As that
scene fades another at high school comes to mind, or maybe it was in the
horrible halls of Junior High. I
brought a scene of Venice back to science class with me. It was in oil pastels. I didn’t know the term, but I loved the waxy
easy feel of it. How it slid across the
paper. I didn’t know a lot about
Venice, but I made my sky brilliant with oranges and green blues. I blended and blended. I can see it Joe, so clearly. But Rob and Billy King made fun of it that
time. ‘No sky looks like that.’ I see their hands, white and clear, knuckles
on my shared desk, pointing to the azure and the tangerine. It felt like those hands crumpled that
picture in just words. Their task
completed, class started and they left.
I don’t know what happened to that picture, maybe I wasn’t brave enough
to bring it home, but here’s the thing Joe.
Skies do look like that.
Northern lights look like that, and I’ve been to Venice with the cutest
boy ever and Dad can tell you that the sky looks unbelievably just like
that.

Venice.

People
bring all sorts of vision with them.
They can see what you may not be able to. You see something broken, they see

something that can be repaired
and made beautiful. That’s what’s so great about people. Maybe just maybe, if they see you’re
willing, they’ll let you in on the wonderful theysee. Be that guy. And be the one who is always
ready to just choose a color beyond the wheel and make his mark right outside
of the line presented to him.

Resist
the urge to plump up the cushion. One
of my favorite authors is L.M. Montgomery.
She gave the world Anne of the Green Gables. But so much more than that, even though your reading takes you as far
away from Prince Edward Island as possible, for me her books gave me ground in
hope, in friendship, in family and in faith.
That’s why they stay, completely marked up and in tatters, near my
desk. In one of those books,Anne of Ingleside, the heroine has had a rather unwelcome houseguest come to stay. Aunt Mary Maria is just awful. And her awfulness resides in her inability
to be happy, an acute resistance to anything that would or could make her that
way. Because of that, perhaps, she’s
determined to make sure others aren’t happy either. Anne says Aunt Mary Maria is ‘always coming into my room without
knocking…always smelling smoke…always plumping cushions I’ve crushed…always
picking at the children’ (67). You know
Joe, it’s always been the bit about the plumping up a cushion that’s gotten to
me, even all these years later. Because
LIFE IS MESSY, and I’ve since thought that it is divided with those who are
cushion plumpers and those who leave them completely contorted on the
sleep-inducing sofa.

I just think if we
rush to fix what we need for comfort, or if we are too quick to erase every
moment of our complete lack of perfection in favor of a house that looks
showroom new all the time—well if we do that, I think it adds more stress to
present an image that isn’t real. (This
divide is not permanent, mind you. I am
married to a plumper.) Nor does
resisting rectifying the cushion to its grandly square shape absolve you of
cleaning your room. I mean, really. Just let yourself be who you are. (I think you're definitely a non-plumper. Look at that room. Gah.)

One last
hug. At the beginning of this school
year, and perhaps because you’ve been here a decade, you seemed to have some
attitude. It shook me up. I worried about how it marked a change in
your behavior remembering my own

John's screen shot of texts I sent Joe after a 'discussion' we'd hadthat morning.

unwillingness to talk to my mother despite her
yearning for the same. So I told you
that I was worried, that I wanted you to be able to tell me anything first. Anything at all. That of course we’d fight, because of course I’m right, but still
you needed to talk to me. And because
of who you are, and how brave you are, you did. You keep asking me for one last hug. You aren’t embarrassed (yet) to acknowledge me in public. It takes a brave person to ask for the hug
first Joe. It’s a brave thing to offer
to reconcile. To put aside difference
and in the moment remember what made you love in the first place. Never stop asking for one last hug from
those who matter to you.

Floss. It is awkward. It makes your gums bleed.
But think of all the little tiny bits of cavity inducing material it
takes out. That stuff left in can
harden and turn yellow sure, but not before it makes inroads in your teeth and
helps your breath make a sewer sweet in comparison. Fresh breath makes friends.
Good friends, good mornings, evenings and everything in between. Floss dear child. Floss.

The
Internet is a Sharpie. You asked me
once when you could have a social media account, my thought was ‘this side of
never.’ What you don’t realize is that
everything you type has an imprint. It
is indelible. Gone are the days of
correspondence, both typed and hand-written, being cast into a fire to be lost. Even if you delete it, it can be traced and
found. Everything you suggest, say, do,
or search can be recovered. It is
carbon paper of the worst kind. I know
I won’t be able to stop you; so much, sadly, is done via social media, but
remember:

If you
wouldn’t say it to someone’s face, DO NOT TYPE IT.

Do not
accept a ‘friend request’ of anyone you have not met AND had a conversation
with.

Remember
future coaches, admissions officers, human resources and that special someone
you hope to know better will be looking at what you post and what you’ve shared
to make a judgment call about your judgment.
Do not

comment about anyone you are dating or hope to date. That can turn ugly, quickly. Do not post pictures at parties, vacations
or dates. Refuse any tags of any kind
of pictures like it.

For that
reason, remember FSF only—post pictures only of your

Family, Sports, or Food.

Life is
meant to be lived Joe, so many people I know, too many to count, have turned
social media into social power. They exert it knowing exactly who they will hurt.
They crave attention and instead of wielding power on the playground,
they are doing it online. It isn’t
enough to have a conversation in real time.
The safety of being behind a screen allows them to say and do exactly
what they want. To be exclusionary, to
be

offensive, to ‘choose’ to like one post over another, knowing, all the
while, that others will see what they’ve liked and make note. It’s insanity.

Like I said, I can’t stop you forever Joe, but you need to think, ‘Would I say this to someone’s face? Is
this an opinion I really do agree with?
Do I understand what this article is about? Does this matter to me today, tomorrow, a week from now, months
from now? Do I know who heads this
group, does it really exist?’ If you
can answer these questions, engage with what you see. If you can’t or if it is too much trouble, only go on
occasionally and even then only to FSF.
It matters.

Everyone
has a story. Ask about it. Choose to listen to it. I mean really listen. Hear what is really being said underneath
the words. What’s the

person’s tone? What’s her expression? What are his hands doing? A lot more to take in than just words. Once you search for the second story, once
you really hear what is being asked or declared, you can respond to it. But not before you decide to listen. Everyone is a storyteller; it is just the
way in which they choose to tell you their story that differs. Art, music, poetry, film, a great serve, an awesome meal, all of
these are stories. This is the way these people tell you who they are. Learn to listen
to it. Tell them what it meant for you to see, hear, read, view or taste it. It’ll take you farther than any
course you choose.

Worthy
Friendship. To get a friend you have to
be a friend. You are such a great
friend Joe, you care, you listen, you ask, you show up. But here’s the thing. Not everyone you meet is worthy of you. To someone you have given the title of
FRIEND should not harm you in speech or guide you against what you know is
right. If s/he does, that person loses
her/his right to be your friend—ever. At
that

moment. Right then. You are worth

something. Our character defines us and attracts others
to us. Do not compromise for the sake
of someone who is simply not worthy of you.
If you wouldn’t say it to them, do not take it from them. It isn’t the most popular position, but
respect wins over popularity every.single.time.

Love yourself first. Then find something to love about someone
else. You know when you are upset with
yourself about something. Your face
contorts and you look so lost and scared.
We talk, you’re reassured and you’re off doing something else. That lag time between loss and action begins
to drag out as you get older until eventually, all you know how to do is focus
on the negative about you. Never once
thinking of the positive. The world
will be critical enough. Don’t you go
getting on that bandwagon. Every day, every single morning, you must say one thing you like about yourself. One thing you are good at, it can be trivial
or serious. But one thing. Then, go out and find something
nice/positive/amazing/good about one other person. Every day, you must do this.
The first part is to reassure yourself because I won’t always be there
to do it, and you need to know that you are important to the whole world. The second is to remind someone else that
they are too.

This is
getting pretty long, but did you know Joe that for many years parents wrote to
their children like this? The fear was
that they wouldn’t survive to see them enter adulthood. There have been books written about it. I don’t expect that to happen, but I wanted
you to have something solid to go back to, when the world has been too hard
and you felt like you couldn't face it.

So, just
remember to always ask for one last hug.
Consider what is really being asked.
Flossing is just a part of adult life and romance that you need to
conquer. And those lines, some of them,
at least, are imagined. Color outside
of them once in a while.”

What the story said...my reviews on goodreads

“You must understand, this is one of those moments.” “What moments?” “One of the moments you keep to yourself,” he said. “What do you mean?” I said. “why?” “We’re in a war,” he said. “The story of this war—dates, names, who started it, why—that belongs to everyone. [….] But something like this—this is yours. It belongs only to you. And me. Only to us” (56). This moment, in Téa Obreht’s lyrical first novel, The Tiger’s Wife, tells you the entirety of the story of love and loss, of memory, maps and war, of science, fables and imagined histories. The tale, set in a fictional Balkan province, is about the relationship between the narrator, Natalia and her grandfather who is a doctor. And the story involves the wars that have ravaged that area for years.

If you think back to the 1990s in the former Yugoslavia, you may remember the horror and shock of those years of unending war. The bombing of a 400 year old bridge, the massacres, the deadening of Sarajevo. While none of these events are overtly, or even covertly, covered in the novel, their echo remains. This is a novel whose strength lies in the ability to translate myth and fable, to make the moments that seem almost unknowable known. The excerpt offered in the beginning of this review is an example of that, the Grandfather takes the young Natalia past curfew to witness the surreal site of a starving elephant being led on the city streets to the closed city zoo, the place of their weekly pilgrimages. During mercurial times, there was this moment of placidity and fantasy. The war which raged and continued and was irrational as wars are, there is the fantastical presence of an elephant sloping up the quiet neighborhood street. While Natalia frets that no one will believe her, her grandfather corrects her idea by telling her that history can be something personalized and intimate. Not meant to be shared by the world, but by those who you love and trust to see your vision. It makes sense, because when histories are challenged and threatened, documents concerning your birth, the death of your families are challenged or lost, history becomes something far more ephemeral. Far more illusory unless it is placed in the permanence of your own heart.

She begins Chapter 2 by saying, “Everything necessary to understand my Grandfather lies between two stories: the story of the tiger’s wife, and the story of the deathless man” (32). So it is between these poles of myth and story that we can locate the history of this narrator and her grandfather, both physicians, both straddling the line between science and home remedy. I could tell you at length about both, but that truly would be spoiling the journey of the story for you. But I will say that the language Obreht uses is so languid and lush, masterful and mindful that you begin to be seduced by it all. So reason, the questions of markings of slippery occurrences of war that do belong to the world that could ground the reader in the world Obreht is translating is lost because that is the moment she is NOT choosing to share. But here is the thing. I needed it. Even in a footnote or an afterward. I needed a timeline of the events that brought the destruction of these people to such impossibilities of existence. Because even though it is a public history, it is one I do not know well. It would be wrong to assume the knowledge on the part of a Western audience I think, it’s unfortunate that this is not a familiar landscape or language. I know, in the recesses of my mind I know the wars in the Balkans. The horrors, the rape camps of Bosnia, the destruction, the evacuation of Serbians…but I don’t know enough, not nearly enough to be lulled into this lush tale. A part of me refused to be completely seduced by it. Because I didn’t understand enough about it.

There is a way in which myth sustains us when horrors are too much. When person and home and identity fall away, and where you cannot locate your birthplace on a map, because it has been eliminated, what do you hold onto except your stories? As the author writes, “We had used a the map on every road trip we had ever taken, and it showed in the marker scribbling all over it: the crossed-out areas we were supposed to avoid…. I couldn’t find Zdrevkov, the place where my grandfather died, on that map. I couldn’t find Brejevina either, but I had known in advance that it was missing, so we had drawn it in” (16). Map lines, map dots, erased and redrawn because of war. How do you locate who you are, if you cannot really know where you are from? The erasing of history, of place, of belonging, of self is such a legitimate tragic legacy of war. So it is understandable that the novel moves between these two myths to bookend it, asking the reader to locate the grandfather and the narrator in its midst. I just think that the novel, which is a remarkable achievement for such a young writer, would have been that much more strong, viscerally, had it had the historical reference points it alluded to. That being said, though, it is a novel of quiet questions and loud answers and makes you wonder long after you’ve set it aside. Questions like, “What is the moment you have? The one you find that belongs to you? Who will you share it with and what familiar myth might you create?”